


God of Second Chance

by Delcat



Series: The Skies We're Under [1]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Bloodplay, Bondage, Choking, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eye Trauma, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Kink, Medical Torture, Mental Disintegration, Slurs, Torture, Woundplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 19:54:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1481947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delcat/pseuds/Delcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson is left wounded and stranded as the night closes in, and Maxwell decides to bring the stray dog in from the rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

It had been too long of a day.  In the end, Wilson had no excuse but that it had been too long of a day.  
  
The end of winter had been too much of a temptation.  He had only planned on venturing as far as the fields to gather vegetables, but the sun was still high by the time he was done, and the realization of how long it had been since he’d had fresh fish seemed like as good a reason as any to continue into the marshes.  
  
And so by the time he heard the hounds, it was too late.  
  
Now the sun was setting, and Wilson couldn’t even reach as far as his backpack for his torch.  He could see it, just barely, from the corner of the eye that wasn’t swollen shut, but when he had tried to get up something in his leg had shifted and he had fallen, the world swimming grey in flaring agony.  He had broken bones before, but not here.  Never here.  He hadn’t thought it was possible, but the rules were changing.  The rules were always changing.  
  
The shadow of one of the spiked abominations that counted for trees here grew longer as he watched, slipped over his outstretched hand, and panic bloomed in his chest.  Wilson tried to pull himself up once more, he had to at least get to his bag, he had to—  
  
"Say, pal."  
  
The overpowering smell of smoke filled his lungs as the sole of an oiled leather boot pressed down on his throat, threatening to crush.  
  
"You look ghastly."  
  
Wilson didn’t move, drawing what breath he could, trying not to cough.  This was how it ended, then.  He felt his face contort into a crooked grin, and he hissed giddy laughter.  _Oh God, he didn’t want to die._  
  
"Hey, you’ve still got a sense of humor about things.  That’s great, kid.  Let’s see that pretty smile." Maxwell played the tip of his boot over Wilson’s face, tilting his head so he was forced to look at him.  Wilson didn’t know if it was the play of the shadows or the skewed vision from his blanked left eye, but the other man seemed to take up the entire world, towering over him in the growing dark.  
  
Without warning, Maxwell stepped down harder, pushing his face into the mud, and Wilson choked as the foul gunk flowed into his mouth, trying to rise and regretting it, a strangled cry escaping his lips at the explosion of pain through his left side.  His ears were ringing, but he could make out harsh laughter, and words that weren’t drowned out enough to keep him from going cold.  
  
"If that’s how you feel, I’m game."  
  
Claws of shadow gripped his body, pulling him down, gagging him from protest.  
  
"Let’s have some fun."  
  
The sun dipped below the horizon as the marshes swallowed Wilson up.


	2. First

When Wilson opened his eyes, it was a long moment before he could make sense of what he was seeing.  
  
He was inside.  
  
 _Inside._  
  
How long had it been?  How many days, months, weeks?  Walls.  Real walls, not ramshackle stone piled two feet high.  A roof over his head and oh, Edison be praised, genuine electric lights on the ceiling.  
  
It really had been a nightmare, the kind where you wake up inside your own head over and over again, the worst kind but—  
  
Something clicked uncomfortably into place.  The starkness of the room, the institutional feel.  
  
So he wasn’t home.  But he was inside.  Inside…somewhere.  A hospital?  Yes, of course.  There had been an accident.  Wilson laughed quietly, thinking of his own carelessness with chemicals.  What _had_ he been thinking?  He must have burned himself, or maybe even caused a small fire.  
  
Another tumbler clicked.  Pain.  Pain up and down his left side, the same as in the dream.  
  
But dreams were funny things, weren’t they?  So easily influenced by the outside world.  He must have had such an intense fever to imagine such things, to turn his injuries into—  
  
 _Click._   His eye, still dark.  
  
Injuries.  Simple injuries, easily healed.  An explosion.  There must have been an explosion.  
  
 _Click._   He couldn’t move.  Not just his broken leg.  He had been trying to touch his face since he’d awoken, unconsciously trying to clear his eyes, and it was just now that he understood why he couldn’t.  Padded cuffs gripped his wrists, and when the revelation spurred him instinctively to move his legs, they gripped his ankles as well.  
  
They didn’t want him to move.  Of course not.  What good-minded doctor would let a patient injure himself further in such restless nightmares?  They’d let him out.  They’d come soon to check on him and let him out, bring him medicine, bring him food—  
  
 _Click._  
  
 _Click._  
  
 ** _Click._**  
  
The smell of cigar smoke dissolved the last remnants of Wilson’s desperate fantasies, and as Maxwell approached, grinning, not a white-coated, white-haloed angel of healing but a dark demagogue, his bad eye stung as he started to cry.  
  
"Hey, pal, what’s the matter?" Maxwell took Wilson’s face in one gloved hand, tilting it back and forth. "Does it hurt?  Come on, be a man."  
  
"Let me go."  He meant to be strong, commanding, but the whisper barely left Wilson’s lips.  His throat was dry and sore, bruised from Maxwell’s heel.  
  
"Cat got your tongue?"  
  
” _Let me go.  Please God let me go._ " He pulled forward and tried to scream as the motion sent a flare of agony through his shoulder.  Maxwell put one hand on his chest and pushed him firmly back as his chest fluttered with soundless gasps.  
  
"I wouldn’t try to do that, bud.  Seems like you bit off more than you could chew.  Don’t worry, ol’ Maxwell will get you all fixed up."  
  
With that, he drew back, out of Wilson’s line of sight.  He craned his neck desperately, but too much of the room was in darkness.  He heard sinister metal clanking and tried fervently to open his eye, but only produced a sick tugging feeling and a slow, sliding flash of light.  He had just enough time to worry about that before the sound of a pair of scissors opening overtook his thoughts.  
  
"Let’s see what we’ve got here."   
  
If Maxwell could hear Wilson’s hissed pleas as he began to cut off his shirt, he ignored them.  As tattered as his clothes were, they were Wilson’s last grasp on civilization.  They reminded him of a better time when the darkness was at its worst, kept him focused, kept him _sane_ , and now they were falling in bloody rags around him.  And what was revealed…he hadn’t realized it was so bad.  Maybe had forced himself not to realize how bad it was, how deep the bites and scratches went.  He couldn’t see much, but he found himself focusing on a long gash across his chest, and as if watching him, of _course_ he was watching him, this was the wound Maxwell chose to push his fingers into.  
  
Soundless or not, Wilson knew Maxwell could feel the screams contracting his chest as he curled his fingers into him, chuckling as he tried and failed to twist away from the disgusting cold of the leather inside his flesh, relenting only just as he felt he might pass out.  No, he wouldn’t let that happen, wouldn’t grant him that mercy.  They were having _fun_.  
  
"Pups did a number on you, huh, kid?  Especially over here.  No, don’t try it.  I’ve already popped your shoulder back in twice, one more and I’ll leave it.  Don’t think you’d like that, pal."  
  
Dislocated.  That, at least, had happened once before, although again, not in this world.  He might have expected it to happen again, the doctor had told him it would…doctor, oh, what he’d give for a real doctor.  He was cold, he was badly injured, this was too much.  
  
And then Maxwell yanked the thin fur blanket aside entirely and cut into the waistband of his trousers and no, this, _this_ was too much.  
  
"Quit squirming, pal, or I might cut off something you don’t like.  We’re both men, right?  It’s nothin’ I haven’t seen before."  He chuckled as he pulled away the last of Wilson’s clothes and a blush spread across his face and down into his neck.  "Or close to nothin’.  Aw, don’t be like that, kid, more than a mouthful’s wasted.  I kid, I kid…"  
  
Wilson turned away, good eye squeezed shut as if to block out the humiliation.  He felt Maxwell grip his broken leg briefly before moving away, and for a giddy, awful moment, he was sure that this was his endgame, to leave him there naked and trembling and hurting.  There was the sound of metal on metal again, though, and when he opened his eyes to the sight of Maxwell threading a needle, he realized that would have been preferable.  
  
"You don’t catch on too quick, do you?  Every time you try to talk, you lose your voice a little more." Maxwell put the needle down.  "Not that I’d mind you shutting up for good, but you might want to save it just a little longer." He tilted Wilson’s chin up, and bile rose in the scientist’s stomach at the smell of his own blood on the gloves.  "See, I’m a reasonable man.  I’m not heartless.  You think I’d set that bone without a little kiss’a dope?"  
  
Wilson’s heart leapt at the thought of anesthetic.  He looked up at Maxwell uneasily, reading his eyes for deceit.  
  
"I got some laughing gas.  Saving it for a rainy day.  You want it?"  
  
He gave a tiny nod.  
  
"Of course you do.  Question is…" Maxwell played a hand lazily over his shoulder. "…how bad?"  
  
He closed his eyes.  
  
"Hey, pal, no funny business.  I just want to see a little gratitude.  Is that too much to ask for a favor?"  He gripped Wilson’s shoulder.  "I wanna see you beg."  
  
Wilson started to shake his head, but Maxwell squeezed and he started nodding fervently, without thought, yes, yes, he’d give him this sick little power play if it made it _stop_.  
  
"Good choice.  Now, let’s see…let’s make it easy.  You just repeat after me, now, as loud as you can.  Got it, kid?"  
  
Wilson nodded mutely.  
  
“‘Maxwell’…no, ‘ _Mister_ Maxwell’…get started, kid…”  
  
Wilson swallowed, throat tight.  “Mh…Mister Maxwell…”  
  
"Louder, pal, I can barely hear you.  ‘Mister Maxwell, please give me what I don’t deserve…’"  
  
"…please give me…what I don’t deserve…"  
  
”’…because even though I’m a lowly mud-sucking pig…’”  
  
"B-because even…even though I’m…a lowly mud-sucking pig…"  
  
"You dropped your voice.  Again.  And look me in the eye when you say it, don’t be shy, now."  
  
Wilson clenched his teeth and looked up at that horrible, hateful grin.  “Pig.”  
  
"Better.  Good.  ‘…you’re gracious enough to grant me mercy…’"  
  
"…’gracious enough to…grant me mercy…"  
  
”’…because you are my god.’”  
  
Wilson was silent, cheeks hot.  
  
Maxwell clenched his hand into his shoulder.  
  
"Because-you-are-my- _god_.”  The last came out in one pained word, and panic gnawed at Wilson’s chest as Maxwell frowned.  “Please.  Please.  God, please, don’t do it, d-don’t hurt me, _please_ —”  
  
Maxwell laughed, and Wilson closed his eyes tightly as he realized that he played right into what the bastard wanted.  He didn’t care whether he read the script, he wanted him to lose control, to _really_ beg.  The panic spread.  Did he even have what he was promising?  Was he just going to pull as much pride as he could out of him before doing what he pleased?  The image of Maxwell wrenching his leg into place flooded his mind, and for a horrible moment he was sure he was going to be sick.  Oh, how he’d laugh _then_.    
  
Then Maxwell grabbed a handful of hair and yanked his head forward roughly, and the sound of metal was, this time, a perverse relief.  
  
"We’ll call it good enough.  For now.  Hold still."  
  
Wilson had enough time to want to change his mind as Maxwell clasped the mask on, sickening and suffocating, but then there was a soft hiss and he gasped thick chemical air into his lungs, sweet dizzying air that set the world spinning in a meadow-soft haze.  It wasn’t enough to send him under— _he_ wouldn’t want that, he supposed—but the harsh edges were fading, his muscles going limp.  The pain wasn’t gone, but it seemed far away now, unimportant.  
  
"See, pal?  Told you your ol’ friend Maxwell would make it better."  
  
He wasn’t sure why Maxwell was still holding his hair now that he was subdued, and the realization that he was stroking it was enough of a shock to jerk him back into reality.  The thought of the first time he had killed a rabbit floated across his mind, how he had petted its fur to calm it before he snapped its neck.  
  
If that was Maxwell’s plan, though, he wasn’t showing it.  Instead, he busied himself with a bottle of alcohol and a handkerchief—already red, so as not to be ruined by the blood, Wilson supposed.  When he touched it to his wounds, it was distantly cold, but the sting was blissfully muted.  It was almost…soothing.  
  
He closed his eyes.  Maxwell was usually brash, unneccesarily rough.  The delicate skill of his hands was surprising.  It was a small thing, but a flash in a collection of details that he had collected in his interactions with Maxwell that belied something different than what he liked to put across, something…maybe something Before.  There had been a Before for Wilson.  Had there been a Before for Maxwell?  
  
He took a deep breath, greedy for the release of the nitrous, but it hitched when he felt Maxwell’s hands on his chest.  He shivered at the cold, jerked slightly as the memory of his wound being violated jolted through him, but he wasn’t being subjected to that cruelty again.  If anything, it…  
  
Wilson began to sweat.  He shouldn’t have given in to the pain.  Pain was good.  Pain kept him centered.  Pain was better than this.  Anything was better than this.  He closed his eyes, blood rushing to his face as Maxwell stopped, surprised, and began laughing.  
  
"What’s _this_ about, kid?” Maxwell leered at Wilson’s growing erection, chuckling.  “To be honest, pal, I thought maybe you were a bit lavender, all the damn’ hats, but I didn’t have you pegged for a slut.”  He leaned over him and tilted up his head, looking into his eyes.  
  
Wilson shook his head fervently, heart pounding, wanting to explain that it wasn’t like that, it wasn’t like that at all, it was the drugs and the leather and just how _long_ it had been, how long without _any_ human contact, much less actual touch, that it wasn’t like that and to stop and to stop and to _stop he couldn’t help it_ —  
  
There was a split second of disbelief as Maxwell saw the change in Wilson’s eyes, processed the uncontrollable shuddering arch of his body against him, and then he jerked back as if stung and slapped a hand to the wetness on his thigh.  
  
 _"Goddammit!"_  
  
Wilson flinched as Maxwell roared and ripped the mask off of him, the world and his hands all rough edges again as he grabbed Wilson’s hair and shoved his face down into the dripping stain.  
  
"Suck it out!  Suck it out, you fucking fairy, and if it stains I’ll break your fucking hands!  Pig!  _Whore!_ ”  
  
Trembling miserably, blood hot in his face and tears hot on his cheeks, Wilson obeyed, sucking his own bitter semen from Maxwell’s suit, certain that the threat wasn’t empty but not entirely caring by now if he failed.  This humiliation was enough, this loss of control.  He felt no pleasure, no relief, just exhaustion and cold and a desperation for the mask, for oblivion from the pain that was already creeping back into his body.  
  
He turned to spit and Maxwell’s hand covered his mouth.  
  
"Swallow it, you filthy bitch."  
  
He shook his head weakly, saw the dangerous edge in his eyes, gave up and gagged it down.  
  
Maxwell pushed him back and Wilson was silent, motionless as he stood over him, breathing hard in his rage.  He seemed about to say something, to sling more abuse at him, but instead turned and stalked to the door.  He turned his head at   
  
Wilson’s desperate whimpering, saw him looking at the mask with panic in his eyes.  
  
"You had your chance, pal."  He yanked the door open, a sickly grin spreading across his face.  "You lose."  
  
The door slammed.  
  
Alone in the dark, Wilson began to sob.


	3. Second

It was somewhere around the fourth night that Maxwell started seriously regretting his decision.  He simply wasn’t having fun anymore.  
  
It had been all right at first, while Wilson was still too ashamed and hoarse to say anything.  He had even tested him, making him watch as he sewed the wound in his chest shut, and though he had gone pale and sweated and eventually vomited thin bile to one side, he hadn’t made a sound.  It had been a pathetic enough display that he had cleaned him up, after shaming him properly, and gave him back the mask for a few hours while he set his leg.  The little man’s pride, diminished though it was, had hidden things from him—Maxwell didn’t think that he had let himself see the splintered bone jutting out of his flesh, and he still didn’t seem to realize he was half-blind.  
  
It was that dogged, damned persistence of belief that had caused Maxwell to take an interest in Wilson over his other subjects.  He simply wasn’t smart enough to give up.  Where the others would learn to avoid hazards or develop ways to destroy them, Wilson would slather himself in poultices and run straight back into the fray over and over again “in the name of science”.  
  
It was incredibly enjoyable.  He had laughed until his sides hurt the first time Wilson had encountered a beehive, and the second, and the third, and the fourth, all in quick succession.  The fifth had done him over for good, and Maxwell had grinned harder than usual when he delivered his usual speech about finding food before nightfall.  
  
Oh yes, there had been deaths.  Dozens.  Hundreds.  Most of them were enough to elicit at least a smirk.  Some, like the failed attempt to take advantage of a herd of beefalo and guardian pigs attacking each other, had given him cause to chuckle for days.  Desperate for meat or not, Wilson should have remembered that the enemy of an enemy is a friend.  
  
But this…  
  
Wilson had found his lungs late on the second day, and he used them.  He screamed when the bandages came off, moaned and whimpered as they were changed.  He muttered and gibbered nonsense at things that weren’t there, not shadows but things only he could see.  He cried quietly throughout the day, and sobbed throughout the night, screaming intermittently, sometimes laughing without a trace of humor.  It was giving Maxwell enough of a headache that on the third night, he’d left the light on, but that had somehow made things worse.  
  
Oddly, he still hadn’t spoken a word.  He had thought at first that Wilson was trying to please him, to ingratiate himself for the sake of freedom or more drugs, but when he looked into his eyes now he saw that there were no words there.  
  
It had to do, he suspected, with his shoulder.  
  
Most of Wilson’s wounds were healing well, having been promptly cleaned.  But after his…fit, and during his punishment, the deep laceration on his shoulder had been neglected.  Now streaks of red were slowly spreading out from it, and at times, when he was most agitated, faint black shadows pulsed beneath the skin.  
  
It was his own damn’ fault.  Acting out like that…  
  
His frown deepened.  
  
It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it.  He had considered tormenting Wilson that way, offering him the one thing he couldn’t find or make or forage for himself, pictured him thrashing like that, arching his back, begging for release that they both knew full well he wouldn’t give.  Sometimes, when hour after hour stretched in front of him without relief, he went further, pictured the smaller man impaled on his cock, screaming, crying, scratching deep into the grass…  
  
Maxwell lit a cigar, shadows fleeing from the brief light.  He liked to have his fun, sure, but he wasn’t like that.  He wasn’t a monster, whatever his subjects thought.  Not like that.  
  
He realized suddenly that Wilson had gone silent.  
  
He thought for a moment, exhaled smoke.  Then he closed his eyes and Moved.  
  
He expected Wilson to flinch when he came close, cry out, but he did neither.  He thought maybe he was finally asleep, but as the lights flicked on, they reflected in his good eye, revealing it to be fixed on the ceiling.  His breathing was shallow, uneven.  
  
"Finally wear yourself out, pal?"  
  
No response.  
  
"You’re boring me, kid."  And scaring him.  Just a little.  "Whaddya say we play a game?"  He played a hand over Wilson’s shoulder, usually enough to send him straight into panic mode, but he didn’t flinch.  "Let’s make a deal.  I’ll take the cuff off this arm—just this one—and we’ll see if you can get the others off.  Maybe I’ll let you go if you can do that."  He blew smoke in his face, eliciting a weak cough.  "That’s what you want, isn’t it?"  
  
Wilson’s lips moved.  Maxwell grinned.  “Was that a ‘yes’?”  
  
"Kill me."  
  
The smile dropped off Maxwell’s face.  
  
"Please God kill me."  
  
As Maxwell’s hand wrapped around Wilson’s throat, he finally reacted.  Fear contorted his face, not of death but of the rage bubbling up in the man that held him.  He tried to jerk away, but Maxwell’s grip tightened, and he cried out as he was yanked forward as far as his restraints would allow.  
  
"You think it’s that easy, kid?  You think you can take my hospitality this long and ask me something like that?"  His grip tightened, face close enough to Wilson’s that he could feel his panicked breath, the words coming without thought, harsh and commanding.  "You’re playing with fire, pal.  You don’t know what you’ve got.  I will _teach_ you and I will _fuc_ k you and you will _pray_ for your blood on my hands, but that’s not your goddamn choice.”  His grip tightened further, and he picked up a razor from his tray of instruments as Wilson squealed.  “I _own_ you, pal.”  
  
He dug the tip of the razor into the wound on Wilson’s shoulder, and naked terror colored his eyes as he tried to beg, _no-no-no-anything-but-that_ —  
  
"I _own_ you, and I will _make you live_.”  
  
Maxwell ripped open Wilson’s shoulder, and Wilson didn’t scream, but _shrieked_ , a high, agonized sound that set Maxwell’s ears ringing and didn’t stop, just degenerated into erratic sobbing as he pressed the wound until it ran red.  The second scream came when he splashed alcohol over the gash, but it was hollow, voice used up once more.  
  
He lay sobbing and trembling as Maxwell searched through the tray, eventually coming up with a few strips of bitter-bark.  He tried to turn away as Maxwell yanked him forward and held one to his lips, but a threatening tug at his shoulder held him still again.  
  
"Swallow it.  Don’t make me force you."  
  
"All right—all right, please—"  
  
It was the first he’d really spoken, and Maxwell realized he was smiling as he choked it down, gagging at the taste.  Smiling, but…not out of good humor.  
  
The rules really were changing.  
  
He shook off the thought as he felt Wilson swallow.  “Good boy.  Now…” He picked up the mask, clasped it on, turned the valve.  “…why don’t you take a little nap, pal?”  
  
There was a moment of gratitude in Wilson’s good eye before it closed.  
  
Gratitude, and…  
  
Maxwell didn’t think about it as he started packing and closing the lanced wound.  
  
He didn’t think about anything.


	4. Third

Wilson didn’t remember waking up.  He wasn’t aware that he was staring at a different ceiling, and then he was.  He felt…even.  Clear.  The whispering had stopped, and while his left eye was still shrouded in darkness, the other wasn’t seeing…things.  He remembered, shivered, whimpered laughter.  
  
"Hey, pal."  
  
He looked around for the voice and was suddenly falling—he wasn’t restrained anymore and he had overcompensated, and he landed on his bad arm and it didn’t hurt as much as it should have but something twisted through his stomach and up into the dark behind his eyes and it was dark and he remembered he _remembered_ —  
  
—and he was being held up, painfully and awkwardly, but the shadow faded with the pressure, and his ragged breathing returned to normal.  He looked down at the hand gripping his side, up to the face of its owner.  
  
Maxwell pushed him upright, only removing his hand after Wilson stopped swaying.  He wasn’t smiling.  
  
"Don’t get the wrong idea, kid.  You’re only in here ‘cause you’re enough of a pain in the ass without getting infected again."  
  
The word wrapped around Wilson’s throat, and he started laughing, giggling breathlessly.  Had he ever been so sick before?  Had he ever been so damn’ **sick**?  
  
"Hey.  _Hey!_ "  Was Maxwell scared?  Should he be?  
  
Wilson pressed his palms to his temples, trying to stop, and he felt Maxwell touch his bare back for a split second before pulling away.  
  
It was enough.  It was stabilizing.  The ghosts went away again.  
  
And then he started to leave.  
  
"Maxwell?"  
  
He stopped at the sound of his name, but didn’t turn.  “You can take care of yourself now.  You’re a thorn in my side, kid.”  He lit a cigar, gestured with it.  “When you can walk, get out.”  
  
He was almost out of the door when he heard the thud.  Cursing, he spun around to see Wilson on the floor, chest heaving, tangled in the sheets.  “Goddammit, what is wrong with y—”  
  
Wilson shot out a trembling hand, didn’t reach him, held it out anyway.  “Don’t leave me.  Please.”  
  
Maxwell jerked him up by it, face flushed with anger, lifting the smaller man almost off the ground.  “Do you think this is some kind of joke—”  
  
Wilson kissed him.  
  
Maxwell almost dropped him, losing his grip but tightening it again before he could fall on his broken leg.  His lips were dry and cracked, but they pressed feverishly to Maxwell’s neck, opening and closing in tiny, pleading whispers, not words but pure desperate sound, and when he clutched at his suit with his free hand, he felt a shiver run through the other man’s body.  
  
The reverie lasted only a moment before breaking, and Maxwell bulled him forward, shoving him onto the bed.  He landed hard on his back, breath knocked out of him, and before he could recover, Maxwell’s hand was squeezing his throat.  
  
"What are you even after, kid?  What do you think you want?"  
  
"You."  
  
His grip tightened until stars bloomed behind Wilson’s eyes, then dropped.  Wilson coughed weakly, energy spent and overspent, and heard Maxwell sigh.  
  
"You don’t know what you’re bargaining for, pal."  
  
He swallowed and closed his eyes.  “Please.”  
  
There was a long silence, and then Maxwell’s fingers pushed into his mouth.  
  
Wilson sputtered, tried to voice confusion, and gagged as they pressed in harder.  
  
"Change your mind?  No?  Then get to work." His voice was harsh, and there was an edge to it Wilson had never heard before.  He didn’t understand, and then it clicked, and he began awkwardly licking at Maxwell’s gloved hand.  The taste of leather was strong, as was the taste of nicotine, but, yes, there was blood there too, faintly.  He hazily remembered Maxwell’s oath against him and couldn’t keep from smiling crookedly, that awful laughter beginning to rise in his throat again.    
  
Maxwell grabbed a handful of hair and yanked, and the pain cleared away the hysteria, let him focus.  
  
"You like this, don’t you?" When Maxwell spoke, it had the familiar, taunting cadence that had been lost before, and Wilson flinched as he felt his other hand touch his chest.  "Don’t try to blame it on the dope this time, pal."  Wilson stifled a moan as he traced his fingertips down over his body, to his stiffening cock.  "You _like_ this.”  
  
He didn’t know if he wanted a response, but he nodded anyway, and suddenly Maxwell’s fingers were replaced by his tongue, forcing into his mouth, sliding up behind his teeth, and he clutched the bedspread, chest hitching.  His slicked hand rested briefly on Wilson’s thigh, and he broke the kiss to whisper into his ear.  “Don’t come.  Don’t you dare.  Not until I let you.”  
  
"Yes," Wilson whispered, and he had barely spoken before Maxwell was finger-fucking him, scissoring roughly inside of him, and he bit his lip to keep from screaming.  He hastily spread his legs, lurching the bad one aside as much as he could.  He had understood it would be painful, but he wasn’t ready for the sheer foreignness of it.  Maxwell noticed his distress and barked a disbelieving laugh.  
  
"You’re a _virgin_ , pal, aint’cha?”  
  
Only Maxwell could make that word sound so filthy, and Wilson floundered for a response.  
  
"I-I-I-I’ve made love to plenty of women—"  
  
"I doubt that.  And you haven’t been fucked, have you?" He rested a third finger at his entrance, held it there. "Don’t lie.  Lie and it gets worse."  
  
Wilson shuddered, not knowing what to feel, feeling too much.  “Yes.”  
  
Maxwell twisted his hand, just a little.  “Yes, what?”  
  
Wilson cried out and arched his hips in panic.  “Yes _yes I’m a virgin!_ ”  
  
"Well.  Aren’t you in for a treat."  
  
For a moment Wilson thought the deeper thrust was punishment, and he opened his mouth for a panicked protest when Maxwell’s fingers curled in and began stroking, and the words died on his lips as a sensation like a sick, beautiful hook tugging inside his belly overtook him.  “Oh,” he whispered, then, after a moment, “God.”  
  
Maxwell laughed low.  “That’s right, pal.”  
  
Time seemed hazy, but Wilson’s cock was quickly dripping, something he couldn’t begin to understand but didn’t care to question the sweetness of, and when Maxwell pushed in a third finger, then a fourth, he was hungry for it.  
  
"If you want something, kid, you’d better speak up.  I’m not a mind reader."  
  
"F…fff…" Wilson bit his lip, cheeks hot.  
  
"Oh, you’ve never done that before, either?  Of course not, you’re a _gentleman_.” Maxwell played his thumb lazily over his skin.  “Well, you’d better say it now, or you’re not getting it.”  
  
"F…fuh…f-fuck me, please…" He spat out the word, uneasy with how it felt on his tongue.  
  
"Say it.  The whole thing.  No pussyfooting around."  
  
Wilson drew in a deep, shaky breath.  “I…I want you to f-fuck me.  …please.”  He swallowed, and the last word was almost inaudible, equal parts tentative and embarrassed. “…master.”  
  
Maxwell paused, perhaps surprised, then pulled his hand away, smirking at Wilson’s groan.  “Good boy.” He undid his trousers, ran his slick hand over his length, and leaned in to whisper into Wilson’s ear as he straddled him.  “This is going to hurt.”  
  
Wilson nodded, trembling, and as Maxwell pressed inside of him he bit back a scream.  It hurt, but it was more than that, it _filled_ him, and Maxwell’s body was finally, finally pressed against his, and as he started thrusting the friction of silk against his cock was almost unbearable.  He whimpered a warning, and this time Maxwell heeded it.  He slowed, mercifully, and Wilson relaxed, gathering his breath.  Maxwell ran one hand over his side, and his touch was…surprisingly curious, searching.  He wondered, distantly, if this was as rare for him.  His hand touched Maxwell’s, and for once, it was the larger man that flinched.  He looked down at him, distrustful, and bristled as Wilson started kissing his neck before ceding to the attention, chucking.  
  
"Got ourselves a romantic, here."  He punctuated the word with a harder thrust, and Wilson gasped, arching his back to meet him.  "Or just a hungry little slut?"  Another buck of his hips, and this time Wilson gave a wavering cry, trying weakly to pull Maxwell closer with one hand.  "I wonder…"  
  
Wilson didn’t know himself, couldn’t say whether the perverse attraction driving him was desperation for touch or something more, he just knew that he needed this, he needed this so badly, and when Maxwell bit his neck he needed that too, needed pain that didn’t come with fever and despair, and he was being fucked, roughly brutally fucked, and he could live in it, soak in the jagged pleasure like a hot bath.  
  
Maxwell hadn’t lost his composure—never lost his composure—but his breath was ragged, and his grip was tight enough to bruise.  When he spoke, it was in a growl.  “All right, little bitch.  Come for me.”  
  
For a split second Wilson was afraid he couldn’t, afraid he’d lose his nerve, and then Maxwell slammed up and into him, jerking their hips together with both hands, and the rush began all at once and he came against him, not in a pathetic helpless stream like before but in thick, shuddering ropes, and he thought crazily, giddily, that he could never clean it from Maxwell with his tongue, and that made it worse, made him scrabble against him in mewling agony.  His scratching and screaming set Maxwell off, set him pistoning harder, and he was suddenly filled with wet heat, more than he would have thought possible.  His head swam, his ears ringing, and as Maxwell pulled out and spent his last across Wilson’s chest, that sickly hook pulled once more in his stomach before slowly fading away.  
  
Maxwell sat back on his heels, breathing hard, watching Wilson quake with aftershocks.  He wiped a hand on his soiled waistcoat in disgust, but didn’t press the point, instead lighting a cigar and turning away.  
  
"…Maxwell…?"  
  
He was silent, not looking back at Wilson as he put himself away.  
  
"…you won’t leave…please…you won’t leave, will you?"  
  
Maxwell sighed out smoke and closed his eyes.  
  
"Kid, I’m sorry it has to be this way."  
  
Shadow hands slid over Wilson’s body, and he barely had time to voice his betrayal, his hurt, before they pulled him under.  
  
The lights flicked off, one by one, until the tip of Maxwell’s cigar was the only thing left burning in the dark.


	5. Epilogue

The world smelled of wet grass and underbrush, not of the heavy smoke of the city, and if he cared to think about, it confused Wilson.  He breathed fresh air.  
  
"Say, pal."  
  
Wilson looked up, tried to get his bearings.  Where was he?  The world was…strange.  This wasn’t a countryside he recognized, and there was a strange man standing over him.  He felt something run along the edge of memory, but it faded as he tried to grasp at it.  
  
"You don’t look so good."  
  
Wilson bristled.  Was he making fun of his condition?  “Who are you to—”  
  
"You’d better find something to eat before nightfall."  The stranger cut him off, flicking aside a spent cigar and—and disappeared into the ground.  Wilson stared, not comprehending, but it was as if he was never there.  
  
Well…almost never there.  The cigar butt smoldered under a tree.  Wilson frowned, pulling himself up with his good arm, and limped over to it.  “How careless.  This could start a fi…”  
  
He looked up slowly at the enormous mechanical door floating in the air, then back down again, to a staff half-buried by it.  It was blinking at him.  
  
"…for science," he muttered, and picked it up.  It wouldn’t do as a cane, but—  
  
Wilson was flattened by something hot and hairy.  He rolled, panicked.  “Nice doggy nice doggy nice—”  
  
This was no dog.  It was furry and had a lolling tongue and four legs, but the similarities ended there.  They were as good as canceled when it opened its massive mouth, revealing…packages?  
  
He squinted at the thing, and when he was quite sure it wasn’t going to jump him again, decided it was all right not to be afraid of it.  He grasped at the situation tenuously.  “You’re like…a chest.  A little chest on legs.”  He brightened.  “I’ll call you Chester.”  
  
Chester jumped once, making an odd sort of *poink* noise.  Satisfied with his cleverness, Wilson started opening packages.  
  
Well.  This was a windfall.  One parcel held fresh vegetables, another, salves.  One held an eyepatch, which he immediately applied, unease dissipating as his dead eye was covered.  There was a walking stick that he supposed would be suitable for his bad leg, and…  
  
Wilson wrinkled his nose, holding the last item between two fingers with distaste.  Who would make a garland out of such ugly flowers?  They were half-dead, browning, and rather than a sweet fragrance, they stank of smoke and leather and…  
  
…and…  
  
He knelt holding the garland, that odd feeling of sameness skittering in the back of his mind, but with it this time, a sense of longing.  
  
 _Belonging._  
  
The reverie was broken by Chester wurfing and *poink*ing at him.  He cheered at the beast’s eagerness and put the garland on.  “Why not, hm?”  
  
Wilson stood, steady now with the walking stick in one hand, and smiled brightly at the door.  
  
"A little adventure never hurt anyone."  
  
Deep below, in the dark, on his throne, Maxwell smiled.  He was sorry it had to be this way, sure.  But it did.  
  
And maybe this time, they’d both be healed.


	6. Author's Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trivia, clarification, and a question asked so many times by one person that it officially became a FAQ.

  * but why laughing gas though **(asked by one friend 15x)**



OKAY OKAY FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.  Let me put on my psych hat motherfuck

The short version of this is still “set dressing for power dynamics”.  Character A has something Character B is willing to give up control for.  It goes further in that in this case, the item in question forces Character B to give up _further_ control, ending up essentially helpless and a slave to Character A’s whims regarding the item.  IS THAT CLEAR ENOUGH FOR YOU SIR

Additionally, oxygen masks are hot.  It’s a Thing.

As trivia, I came within a click of making a post reading “lightning round: oxygen mask or syringe w/side of needle phobia which is sexier go” but realized before doing it that Maxwell would have to take the mask off to force Wilson to lick his suit clean, so it added that much more tension/dominance to the situation.  I was also a tad worried that my _readers_ might have needle phobias, or worse, drug triggers.  It would have been something mushroom-based sooner than heroin, of course, but junkie!Wilson may be a bit out of my comfort zone.

That having been said, I’m pretty sure Maxwell could pop a vein just by squeezing someone’s arm.

  * Did Wilson really forget everything?



Yes and no.  The headcanon I’m working off of is that while characters lose explicit memories when they resurrect, they have a working hive memory of sorts that allows them to survive longer.  Ex: Woodie tries to chop down a Tallbird, inevitable happens.  He won’t remember the exact experience when he revives, but the next time he sees a Tallbird, he’ll get a general flash of knowledge and not make the same mistake twice.

Wilson doesn’t actually die here, but he does get a sort of soft reset—he doesn’t remember anything at the end of the fic, but the longer he wears the garland and the closer he gets to Maxwell, the more it’ll fill in.  The wounds are also a reminder—he believes right now he’s had them all his life, or at least for a large part of it, but he’ll figure it out.

As for why, the game has rules.  Wilson has to reach the heart of the world and see the truth for himself.

  * How the hell is he going to get through Adventure Mode like that?



The same way I’m doing it: Cheating and cursing like fuck.

  * How badly IS Wilson injured, anyway?



Wilson was ambushed by hounds in a marsh biome.  After being knocked to the ground, he was bitten deeply in his left leg and dragged by it over rough terrain.  He tried to escape by grabbing a tree, but succeeded only in dislocating his shoulder.  During the recoil, he hit his head, causing a retinal tear and bleeding, which led to a retinal detachment.  Spiky underbrush caused the gash across his chest, along with multiple abrasions and lacerations, and a discarded tentacle spike dug deep into his shoulder, causing the infected wound.

  * That was stupidly detailed.



In Army of Darkness, they kept a makeup template of Ash’s cuts so they would be the same in each shot.  I made a wound template and mock scenario to make sure I didn’t trip over myself.  Did you think this was all fun and games?

  * Not for Wilson, certainly.



Don’t give me lip, theoretical question-having entity.

  * Okay, enough Wilson.  What’s up with Maxwell? OR: Hey, this isn’t dubcon at all!  It’s just plain con, you conman!



Hehe, puns.  Cough.

I’m okay with noncon done in a non-creepy manner, but there’s already a hell of a lot of it in the fandom.  As sexy as pure-embodiment-of-evil!Maxwell is, I felt like I could get more out of his character by playing to his humanity.  He’s an egomaniac, a narcissist, a sadist, and generally not the nicest of guys, but at the end of the day, he’s also in the same boat with everyone else—an average guy who bit off more than he could chew and ended up being a chess piece in someone else’s game.  I’m not shaming anyone or pointing fingers, this is just how I personally write.

Besides, it sets up for [SPOILER] in [SPOILER].

  * So this means they have a healthy relationship, right?



Hahahaha oh God no.  Kids do not aspire to this, this is codependent and creepy as fuck.  AND IT ONLY GETS WORSE 8D

  * What’s up with the title?



Most of my titles come from lyrics.  This one’s from [Mephistopheles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=njuo1EKzjuQ) from Beethoven’s Last Night:

_All of your life now you have denied_   
_There’d be a time when you’d ever die_   
_Still it’s been rumored this thing must be_   
_Why is it then that you act surprised_   
_When I appear now to be your guide?_   
_Why do you hesitate to follow me?_

_See it rising, stare and wonder_   
_Hear it beckon you to dance_   
_Feel it hold you, take you under_   
_I’m your God of second chance_

  * Soooo, where does Charlie fit into canon?



IT’S NOT LIKE I STARTED THE FIC BEFORE FINISHING THE GAME AND FOLLOWING THE CLUES AND EVERYTHING SHUT UP YOU’RE CYBERBULLYING ME THIS PRESS CONFERENCE IS OVER


End file.
